


Lost Boy

by Khintress



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst and Feels, Backstory, pre-warden
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-19
Updated: 2018-04-19
Packaged: 2019-04-25 05:25:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14371854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khintress/pseuds/Khintress
Summary: He remembers a hearth and a garden and a weathered tree stump with his name carved into it. If he focuses, he can see the sunflowers painted on their old wooden door when he closes his eyes.There are no sunflowers in the Tower.A little pre-Warden ficlet centered on Darian Amell and his time leading up to the events of Ostagar.





	Lost Boy

>   _maybe if i talk too much_
> 
> _maybe if i run amok_
> 
> _they'll get it in their head_
> 
> _that i'm not theirs_
> 
> _and then they'll give me up_

* * *

                He remembers them; everything about them. His mother’s laugh – like music on the wind – and her dark, soft skin. He can still see his father’s blue eyes – like the sky after a storm – and his wild, untameable curls. He sees Serena’s smile as she teases him, and feels Lin’s tiny hand in his as she begs him to play. He remembers a hearth and a garden and a weathered tree stump with his name carved into it. If he focuses, he can see the sunflowers painted on their old wooden door when he closes his eyes.

                There are no sunflowers in the Tower.

                There’s no music, or wind, or sky. There are no gardens or trees or – or –

                There are no smiles here. Not for him. Not when he’s been stolen away from his home, from his family, from everything he’s ever known and loved. It’s like they’ve torn off little pieces of him and left them on the road to disappear in the dirt as surely as his freedom. He’s been dropped headfirst into the sea and no one has bothered to teach him how to swim.

                So he can’t smile – not while he’s hidden in stone and his family forgets him in the sunlight.

                What he _can_ do is act out. He can talk too loud and run too fast and be more trouble than he’s worth. They won’t let him go, he knows – the magic in his blood all but shackles him here. And he sees what happens to the others, to the ones who turn to anger and violence, who can’t control their power. So he toes the line, perhaps too dangerously, between nuisance and threat.

                He doesn’t want to hurt anyone, mage nor Templar. He just wants them to remember. Remember that he doesn’t belong here, with them. That he doesn’t belong _to_ them. He’s not a possession, or a thing to be controlled. He will not be another lamb waiting for the slaughter. He’s more than that; more than his magic.

                He has his mother’s skin, and his father’s curls. He has her laugh and his eyes. He is joyful music and the bluest sky – he is the culmination of every ounce of love his parents poured into him; each one of Lin’s smiles, every one of Serena’s bad jokes. He’s sunflowers painted on an old wooden door.

                He is Darian Amell, and he’ll make sure they know it.

                And he does, only, it doesn’t seem to matter much. After spending too much time toeing the line, he starts to think he might need to find a new method. Apparently, ‘troubled youth’ is a fairly common act. The enchanters who don’t have the patience to deal with him opt to ignore him instead, and the other apprentices – well, he can’t exactly blame them for their disinterest in his troubles.

                They all have troubles; he’s just the loudest. Or, perhaps, the second-loudest. The elven girl is a force of nature; always talking but never saying anything. She reminds him of Lin that way, with a million questions and a smile to match each one. They look nothing alike, he knows, but even the sight of her breaks his heart with the memory of his little sister. So he avoids her when he can, and minimizes their interaction when he can’t. She doesn’t seem fazed, simply bounding on to the next person, but someone else _does_ notice.

                Wynne is gentle, and patient, and just different enough from his mother that he can still breathe when he speaks with her. She’s too quiet, and she doesn’t laugh as easily – but she’s kind. He likes her, even if he doesn’t want to admit it. She sees him – more than a mage, more than sob story.

                She _sees him_.

                “Friends can be few and far between.” She says all too knowingly, scanning the shelves as he stares at a tome half-heartedly. He taps his fingers against the desk, glancing up at her with a curious hum. She’s running her hand along the spine of a particularly old text, but he knows better than to think she’s not focused entirely on him. “It’s difficult to adjust, I know. But there are those who can help, if you’d only let them.”

                “Are you offering to be my friend, Wynne?” He teases, grateful for the distraction from the book he’s not really reading.

                “I’m already your friend.” She corrects with a chuckle. “I’m suggesting that, perhaps, I shouldn’t be your _only_ friend.” That effectively halts his tongue, turning his brain to mush as he registers what she’s just said to him.

                _I’m already your friend_.

                But that wasn’t…they weren’t…he hadn’t _known_ they were friends. He has acquaintances and teachers, but – well, he wishes Wynne would have informed him of the development earlier. He has so many bad jokes saved up.

                “Arryn’s nice.” She says next, and the gears in his head start up again. “Jowan is a bit of a raincloud, but they balance each other out.”

                Darian doesn’t think he’s ever actually spoken to Jowan, but he knows the boy is as demure as they come.

                “I don’t know.” He pretends to muse, pursing his lips as he continues to drum his fingers on the desk. “That’s three whole friends. Do you think I’m ready for that sort of commitment?”

                “I _think_ ,” She finally turns to look at him, and her eyes are impossibly warm. “That you’re ready to have a conversation with someone your age.”

                “But people my age aren’t as smart as you, Wynne.”

                “Alas,” She signs wistfully. “That can’t be helped.”

                And she’s quiet, and doesn’t laugh easily, but she’s just enough like his mother that he tries, for her. If Arryn is surprised the first time he approaches her, she doesn’t show it. She just laughs and smiles so wide he can see where she’s missing three different teeth. He’s older than her – nine to her eight – but she’s been here longer. She knows the Tower better than he knows the back of his hand, and insists on showing him around like he hasn’t been here for almost a year already.

                She’s not afraid to touch him – not like so many apprentices. She’ll take his hand or pat his head or write nonsense on his back with her finger. It’s familiar, easy, and he doesn’t realize how much he’s missed simple contact until he has it again. He still thinks of Lin, of her small hand engulfed in his, and it still hurts. But not like it used to; it doesn’t scare him anymore. He wants to remember – he thinks it might hurt more if he forgets.

                She was so young when he was taken; he wonders if Lin remembers him. It’s selfish of him, he thinks, to wish that sort of pain on her, but – well, he hopes she does.

                Arryn, for all her eccentricities, seems to understand. In her own, weird, way.

                “I didn’t have any siblings.” She says one day, unprompted. Darian and Jowan look up from their card game to find her watching them, the softest smile on her lips. Jowan doesn’t react beyond cocking an eyebrow, and Darian isn’t sure if she’s expecting them to respond until she continues. “I know I’m supposed to hate it here. Hate the Templars and the Enchanters and stupid statues. But I can’t.”

                Darian’s not sure what the two have to do with each other, but he knows by now to let her work her thoughts through. If he interrupts her, she’ll never finish.

                “The Circle stole a lot of things, from all of us.” She acknowledges, and he thinks with a start that those are tears glittering in her eyes. He doesn’t like that – _oh no, he really doesn’t like that._ He reaches for her, and she’s so quick to grab his hand, the strength of it nearly knocks the air from his lungs. Jowan is slow to follow, but eventually his hand finds her free one. She squeezes them both gratefully, and the tears don’t fall.

                “It stole our families, our homes, our _freedom_.” She continues, and swallows carefully. “It stole our lives. Everything we had.” But then she’s smiling, bigger than before, and it’s so uniquely _Arryn_. “But it gave me you.”

 _It gave me you_.

                “Arryn –” Jowan tries to interrupt, but she’s faster.

                “I didn’t have any siblings.” She repeats, and that effectively shuts him up. “Now I’ve got two brothers. And I can’t hate the Circle for that.”

                And if he has to pick a moment, a point in time when he could see Arryn and think _sister_ without thinking _Lin_ – this is it. Because for the first time in three years, he can look at what he’s gained without seeing what he’s lost. And he loves his friends for who they are – not who he wanted them to be.

                He doesn’t want them to be anyone else. Not anymore.

                Arryn doesn’t ask questions when he asks her to paint sunflowers on his bedframe, and he doesn’t complain when she paints one on his cheek too. Even Jowan, for all his inhibition, sports a yellow flower on the back of his hand. It’s not home, not really, but maybe they – well, maybe they _can_ be.

                Days pass into weeks, into months, into years. Arryn grows her hair out, Jowan learns how to smile, and before he knows it, Darian Amell is waking from his Harrowing a full-fledged mage. It’s ridiculous, he thinks – as though the title is now a reward instead of an accusation. But he’s not dead, and he’s not tranquil, and the first thing he sees when his eyes open is Arryn’s joyous grin.

                She’s already vying for an enchanter position, having passed her Harrowing just two weeks prior. She’s a marvel, if he has anything to say about it. Though, judging by the rug in her new quarters, her primal spells could use some work.

                “You did it.” She breathes, excitement lacing the words as he rises from the bed. “You’re not an apprentice anymore!” Her excitement is infectious, and Darian can’t help the smile that spreads across his lips.

                “I did it.” He repeats, like the words aren’t quite real yet. “I – I’ve got to tell Jowan. And visit Wynne! I did it!”

                And he tells Jowan. But he doesn’t visit Wynne. He doesn’t get the chance.

                Instead he’s pulled in every direction. What little parts of him he still has are torn and scattered and he remembers sunflowers painted on his bedframe as the dirt billows under his feet for the first time in over a decade. He remembers laughter and blonde hair and pale fingers ghosting across his back.

                The Wardens get his body, but his heart lingers.

                She’s alone now, and he doesn’t think she’ll ever forgive him for that.

                He wishes he had carved his name into the stone while he had the chance.

                He wishes Jowan had loved them as they’d loved him.

                He wishes a lot of things.

                His fellow recruits look more pleased to be there than he does. One in particular, a blond man with an easy smile, looks like his life hadn’t started until now. Darian doesn’t know whether to feel envious of him or sorry for him. To have lost is one thing, but to have never had anything at all? He thinks of his mother’s laugh, of his father’s eyes, of Serena’s smile and Lin’s tiny hands. He thinks of Arryn, and knows he wouldn’t want to forget anything. He’s more for knowing them, for loving them, for remembering them.

                He’s more than his magic, and he’s more than what Jowan’s done to him.

                “I’m Alistair,” The blond man says, and Wynne’s voice echoes somewhere in the back of his mind.

                _There are those who can help, if you’d only let them._

“Darian.” He responds, and tries not to think of Jowan anymore. It’s not as easy as he’d like. He can count the people he’s known – _really known_ – on both hands; it’s hard not to draw comparisons. Conversations are tense and smiles are tight, but he tries. He doesn’t want to be withdrawn again, but Jowan’s betrayal is etched into his bones. The sight of blood magic swirls behind his eyes and his heart pounds in his ears and if they had just _been enough for him_ , then –

                But that’s not fair, he knows. Jowan wanted freedom. He wanted love. And he’s not sure about Arryn, but Darian had it. In his friends, in Arryn and Wynne and Jowan. He hadn’t had a sky above his head but he’d had love and it had been enough. He wishes (he wishes so, so many things) that he had been enough.

                 Instead he’s been stolen away again, leaving even more pieces of himself in the dirt behind him.

                It isn’t until his lips are stained black and his blood burns that he realizes the Wardens have taken more than his body. He wants to run, to escape back to the Bannorn and find the stump with his name in it and the door with sunflowers painted on it. He wants his mother to sing him to sleep when he wakes, drenched in sweat, with another song scraping at his skull. He wants his father to wrestle the poison from his blood, to help him stand when the ache in his bones leaves him shattered. He wants to feel whole again.

                He wants to feel whole.

                He doesn’t think it’s possible anymore.

                “I never knew my parents.” Alistair is saying, two empty plates between them as they rest after dinner. “I grew up in Redcliffe, until they sent me to the monastery.” Darian isn’t sure where this story is going, but there’s a wistful smile playing on Alistair’s lips, so it can’t be too bad. “The hounds I cared for were the closest things I had to friends until now.”

                 He doesn’t mean to choke on his ale, honestly he doesn’t. But Arryn’s face startles him so badly he has to double over to ease his lungs. _I didn’t have any siblings_. Alistair fakes a laugh and nods, finishing the rest of his own drink.

                “Uh huh, laugh it up.” He grins, greatly misjudging Darian’s poor reaction. “Poor friendless Alistair, I know. But listen, you don’t steal the food off of my plate, so I’m trying to look on the bright side.”

                And then Darian laughs, genuinely laughs, and wonders how he could have ever looked at Alistair and seen Jowan. He’s quick to laugh and even quicker to help – easy to get along with, if you bother to try. He teases him, but it’s gentle. Friendly. Comfortable. He’s not afraid to talk, to share, to simply _be_.

                “No friends? None at all? I find that hard to believe, what with your unshakeable charisma and unchallenged wit.”

                “I know you’re making fun of me.” Alistair points out. “But I’m going to take that as a sincere assessment of my charisma and wit. As for friends?” He scratches at his chin, pretending to ponder as Darian straightens himself out, planting his mug back on the table. “I knew a girl, years ago.”

                “Oh, a girl, he says!”

                “Hush, we were very young. She spent a few weeks in Redcliffe with her family.”

                “You had _one_ friend for a few weeks? Alistair.”

                “She’d sneak away to play with me. I nearly broke my arm falling from the rafters in the barn. She took one of the Mabari pups home with her, if I recall correctly.”

                “She pushed you from the rafters and stole a dog? And you still consider her a friend?”

                “I didn’t have many options, Darian.”

                He misses Arryn. He misses Wynne, and his parents. He misses Serena and Lin, and _damn him,_ he misses Jowan. But Alistair is kind, and genuine, and perhaps a bit foolish – but good. His situation isn’t ideal, but he isn’t lacking for good company. He gets to know the others, but Alistair is the only one he’s comfortable calling ‘friend’. He’s never been good at making friends, as his poor track record suggests – but they’re good at finding him. Better than he expected, at least. And things are good, for a time.

                Until they aren’t.

                Barely six months in, and Darian finds himself on the road again. Every time he marches through the dirt, something awful awaits him at the end. First the Tower, then the Wardens. They, at least, weren’t as awful as he’d expected. Somehow, he doesn’t think the Blight will be as forgiving.

                He’s scared, but he won’t let it stop him. Not this time, not again.

                He’s not losing anyone else.

                Even as he stands on the battlements, his feet numb and his every bone aching with the wind and rain, he holds himself tall. He is more than what he’s lost – more than a son, than a brother. More than a Warden and more than a mage.

                What he _is,_ is cold. And soaked to the bone. And perhaps a bit vocal about his discomfort.

                “We’re in Ferelden.”

                And he smiles – he has to, because the disgruntled elf in front of him has the same furrow in her brow that Serena did. And because he remembers them – all of them – everything about them. He can think of them and find joy in the memories. He can find solace in the pieces of them that fill the empty spaces – that keep him together when little bits of him crumble to dust beneath his heel. He can think of them and _smile,_ so he will. He’ll smile and endure the cold and the rain and _whatever_ the world throws at him because _that is what he does_.

                When the fighting starts, he remembers sunflowers on an old wooden door, and he endures.

* * *

> _i've been away a little while_
> 
> _it's been a few years i think_
> 
> _and i don't know where you are_
> 
> _but i've changed a bit_
> 
> _since i was six_

**Author's Note:**

> Lyrics are from Breadcrumbs by Jacob Lee
> 
> Come find me on tumblr! I'm khintress over there too!


End file.
